


The Points Don't Matter

by TaleWorthTelling



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Steve, M/M, Pre-Serum, Shameless Smut, power bottom Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWorthTelling/pseuds/TaleWorthTelling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their tastes run a little different, but they're good together, filling in the gaps.</p>
<p>This has no plot whatsoever, not even an attempt. It's pure porn, but by God they're delighted by one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Points Don't Matter

**Author's Note:**

> There’s been a ton of really, really, monumentally depressing meta/headcanon going around lately about these two, and I’m all for that, I really am, but I kind of reached a saturation point and thought, “Jesus, isn’t the source material fucking soul-crushing enough?” and, upon realizing that I’m not sure I’ve written them properly happy together, I decided that they were going to be happy for at least a couple thousand words of really smutty porn. And nothing else. They’re happy, they’re together, and there’s porn.  
> That is it. That is the fic. Want to see the summary I wrote to make sure I kept to my word? “Pre-serum!Steve and Bucky: Bucky gives long leisurely gentle blowjob while fingering Steve, waits a beat, Steve flips him onto his back and ride him hard and fast.”  
> Words of a poet, my friends. The file name is “fucking be happy a minute dudes”.

Bucky’s had his mouth on Steve, leisurely and gentle, for damn near twenty minutes. It’s good, real good, sweet and slow; and Bucky’s tongue is wicked no matter what he uses it for, but the best way has always been like this. It’s long and wet and hits all the right places that make Steve ache, make him shake, make him _want_.

But that’s still a twenty minute drawn-out blowjob. Twenty minutes of hardness and softness and feather soft touches. Twenty minutes of slick lapping and quiet slurping and fingers kneading his slender thighs, hands wrapped almost all the way around just above his knobby knees, holding them open and still. He could squirm, but that’s part of the challenge, isn’t it? Part of the game.

Bucky is solid and strong and hot between his legs, a presence that would keep them parted either way, but Steve’s been good for all this time; hasn’t even squeezed Bucky’s sides (even though they’re hips that are meant to be cradled shamelessly by skinny legs, grabbed desperately with twitching hands, scratched up and marked by sticky fingernails that leave trails on his skin in white then pink).

There’s a towel under Steve’s ass and shoulders, the length of his back arched up away from the floor, but the floorboards are still hard, and if Bucky hadn’t spent many of those minutes with his fingers in Steve’s ass then there would be no feeling left in it at all from how firmly he’s got it planted. His arms are up over his head, shoulders twisted, so he can wrap white-knuckled hands around a leg of the bed and hang on.

It’s only his grip and his shoulders that are tense, though. The rest of him … oh, the rest of him is loose and welcoming, open and melting into the floor like so much smooth dripping honey.

He’s warm and buzzing, alright, and Bucky’s only wrapped his mouth all the way around him a few times. The rest has been the playful teasing that Bucky rarely gets to indulge in but that makes him hard as hell and keeps him there – the stuff Bucky dreams about, basically, and telegraphs to Steve in his sleep, hips canted and insistent. Steve’s wired a bit differently, set up to receive and search for different pleasures, but his exception is anything that makes Bucky lose his mind, and nothing seems to do it for the guy quite like sinking his concentration into Steve and staying there as long as he can.

The game is for Steve’s world to narrow to the offered pleasure and nothing else, and to trust that Bucky will get to it when even he can’t take it anymore.

Steve likes games. He likes challenges.

He really likes the sweat dampening Bucky’s hair (that he can’t touch, not yet) and the loose-legged crouch Bucky’s settled into (the better to lean into the floor while Steve waits and waits) and the happy crinkles at the corners of his eyes every time Steve gasps and moans and tries to do neither of these things.

He likes Bucky, is what he’s saying.

Bucky swallows him down again and it’s been _five whole minutes_ since he’s opened his lips farther than to let that tongue peek out or flash Steve a toothy grin – _five whole minutes_ , Jesus, Steve’s got a head for time and he knows these things, five minutes that felt like hours for all that patience is a virtue and all – and that’s too much not to let the jerk have a growl; surely it’s within the unofficial rules in this unofficial game. They’ll let it slide.

Slide like Bucky’s greased hand on Steve’s leg. He’s moved it inward to tease the sensitive skin behind his knee, but even though he’d wiped it hastily on the towel before grasping Steve’s thighs, Vaseline clings. He accidentally drops Steve’s leg, squeezes it right out from beneath his fingers, and he’d been bracing himself with it, so he falls forward slightly and catches himself quickly by slamming his palm down onto the floor.

Which is loud, which they’ve been trying not to do, so they wait a beat before they resume. (Their neighbors don’t seem to care as much as they’d always thought they would, but, then again, Bucky swore up and down that he’s seen half of them going in and out of the bathhouse, so what do they know?)

It’s also alarmingly close to Steve’s balls, and if they weren’t drawn up tight already, they might have had a problem.

But they are, and he can’t deny the shiver that races up his spine at the shock of the sound and the anticipation of pain that doesn’t come, displaced air huffing against his skin.

Bucky sees it, too, and sucks harder, half in apology and half in determination, but no faster. His fingers go back where they belong, where they’ve been teasing even worse than his tongue, and slide in deep. His fingertips ripple and stroke and his thumb presses hard outside where Steve’s always surprised by how sensitive he is, and his other hand hitches Steve’s leg up higher, over his shoulder, and massages below his hip. His head bobs and his tongue does what it can with a dick jammed over it, and all of this feels so intense that time seems to be slowing down just enough for Steve’s racing brain and pulsing body to ignore how slowly Bucky’s still moving.

It doesn’t seem possible that something so gentle can feel so good, at least in Steve’s experience, but it is, and it does, and it’s one of the many things that’s just better when it’s Bucky.

“Touch yourself,” he surfaces long enough to say, dark eyes flicking up to Steve’s chest. If he had enough hands, they seem to say. More hands and all the time in the world.

Steve smiles, lazy and sweet, and relinquishes one hand to the cause. Bucky watches for long seconds while he rubs his chest, circles his nipples like they’re not the goal but just an afterthought (a lie, always a lie, Steve doesn’t think that far ahead when he’s rushing to the edge if he can help it and he never has). The hand that’s rubbing stalls on Steve’s hip to squeeze in a decidedly ungentle way before it flexes and softens once more. The indents don’t last long enough.

They never do, with Bucky. But he’s never found himself wanting despite it.

He doesn’t need the press of Bucky’s fingers to prove that he’s with him ‘til the end of the line. He always feels him, everywhere they’ve traced each other. It stays with him, and he keeps that just for himself.

He locks his gaze with Bucky’s before he scrapes his nails over one, flicks it, brings his hand back up to his mouth to wet it and play some more.

Bucky’s eyes close hard and his fingers stretch wide inside Steve.

It’s all over when he moves his mouth lower, to lovingly suck first one, then the other ball into his mouth and squeeze lightly with his lips.

Steve manages to get a hand over himself in time not to paint Bucky’s hair, which is really just common courtesy.

His chest heaves and his open, gasping mouth feels wet all over, cool air making him shiver. He breathes, in and out, again and again, and glances at the clock.

Twenty-eight minutes. A new record.

He breathes once, twice, three times more as he wipes his hand on the towel below him, cards the fingers of his other hand through Bucky’s sweaty hair like he’s been waiting for, and pulls him up to meet him halfway and kiss.

The kiss is as sweet as anything they’ve done in the last half an hour, but it’s brief, because Steve flips Bucky right the hell over and straddles him to sink down onto his cock. He’s had enough easing for the night, enough gentle, and it’s Bucky’s turn to play the game. He slams down. Bucky rises up to meet him for a few thrusts, but mostly he lets Steve work, hard and fast and as rough as he likes it, rough as Bucky tends not to do. Bucky’ hips jut into the undersides of Steve’s thighs every time he drops down, every time he rolls his body, and it’s good, so good. They’re sweaty enough to stick together, not sweaty enough to glide, and the friction on his skin catches and burns just a little.

He doesn’t slam his palms down like he wants to, mindful of the noise, but he does lean forward and plant them above Bucky’s shoulders. He’s rough right now, racing toward the end like there’s a medal at the finish line, but this is the part Bucky needs to ground him in these moments: Steve hovers his lips above Bucky’s and waits, all of him moving but this one thing, and Bucky surges up to take. His sucks on Steve’s tongue and his lips and even chastely presses them together when the urge strikes him, but his eyes close and he doesn’t break contact and it doesn’t even twinge for a moment, let alone hurt. It’s a contrast to every else going on and Steve loves that this is the thing Bucky needs.

Bucky doesn’t last as long as he’d perhaps have liked to, but Steve doesn’t care, has already spent himself and has been moving on the current this whole time, body sensitive and jangling but mind sharp. Bucky’s hands smooth up and down his back until they settle at his shoulders and grip and he comes, turning his head down to mouth sloppily at Steve’s neck and press his face there into the jumping pulse he surely feels under his tongue.

His spine is rigid and then, all at once, goes slack, slowly easing down to the floor with Steve firmly in his arms, happy to be pulled along.

Steve’s eyes are closed, and he’s floating along on a warm wave, but Bucky’s snort prompts him to grudgingly crack open one eye and peer up at Bucky.

Bucky’s looking at the mess they’ve made of each other (but mostly Steve, which he doesn’t mind) and shaking his head. He loves it, though.

They’ll lay there as long as they dare, until they’re cold and slightly itchy and cramping a little from their position on the floor; and then they’ll clean up and rib each other and fall asleep in their pushed together beds.

They have a pattern, like the sun that rises and falls, and they know where they stand with each other. It’s enough to have right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Now I guess you should imagine them petting kittens. I thought "they should fuck, they'll be happy then" before I thought, "Hey, maybe they can pet some kittens or hang out and go on a date."


End file.
